


Tumultuous

by skydork (klismaphilia)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Emotional Turmoil, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Murkoff Corp, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Running Away, Smoking, aftermath and recovery, mental breakdowns, unorthodox relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6603139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe there's something to all this that he isn't getting. It's like a photograph, but not a good one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumultuous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intoxicated_by_our_lies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intoxicated_by_our_lies/gifts).



> well, Toxic and I were doing a Miles/Waylon RP thing on skype and I decided to roll with it and make an actual story for her. love ya, babe.

Waylon’s staring again. It’s that absentminded look, like his head’s caught somewhere out in space, too far gone to be considered healthy, but somehow healthy enough not to be considered gone. And there’s a look in his eyes, something that’s just a bit too paranoid, that’s seen too much. It’s too obvious to Miles. The journalist’s seen enough of this to keep the picture on hand, a flashbulb memory so to speak, in and out of his head in an instant. 

 

He isn’t sure if that’s what finally makes him say in a soft, low pitched voice, “I see you, Park.”

 

“Oh...?” There’s a hint of fear held in the tone, too detectable to Miles’ ears. Waylon’s voice is soft, abrupt when it comes, his body on edge, a tingling hand, turning to look at him glassy-eyed, half stuck in a daydream. 

 

“Yeah,” Miles replies, and it’s only then that he can watch Waylon bristling, his own voice losing a bit of the gruffness as he adds, “Calm your tits. I’m not Gluskin or anything.”

 

“Not Blaire either?”   
  


“I killed Blaire, dumbass. Think you could be a little more grateful.” He isn’t sure why his voice doesn’t show the slightest hint of inflection as he says it, like the thought that he’d killed Blaire was of no importance, like killing someone was just… a nick in the lens, so to speak. Like all the nicks Murkoff had made in his goddamn camera, enough to last more than a lifetime. More shit had fallen in the gutter thanks to that place than had come out of it.

 

He assumes Park is the exception.

 

“I-I know,” Waylon stammers out, and it’s the crack in his voice that causes Miles to look down at him, the way he’s twitching violently, nervousness in his dry breath as it hits the cold air. “C-can you… let go of me?”

 

“I…” He hadn’t even noticed he was gripping the man’s arm, nails digging into pale flesh, a lump building in his throat. “I- yeah. Fuck.” Swallowing, the older man runs a hand through his messy dark hair, glancing about the room again with a heavy sigh. 

 

“S-sorry,” his voice is choked, breath coming in rough spurts, eyes betraying too much with a single glance as they settled on Miles, somehow soft, a gaze that’s almost… pained.

 

“Don’t fuckin’ look like that.”

 

“I-I didn’t mean to?”   
  


“Park, come on,” Miles says, turning away from him. “It’s- that look. That pity gaze.”

 

“N-no! I swear…”

 

Miles has to hide a chuckle at the sheer terror found in those words… apologetic, perhaps. Anxious, definitely. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it.” He pauses, glancing to the raindrops soaking the glass pane of the window, leaking down the frame and sliding off the sides into oblivion. “I'm gonna go smoke. You're welcome to come if you want. Just don't keep... acting like this. Like you did this. All the shit with Murkoff. You didn't, okay?”

 

“I-I... I could've prevented this though. Left, told you even more. Made sure that you would've been more prepared.”

 

Miles is grabbing his shoulder, pointing to the window as he tugs Waylon closer, snapping out some words before the small man can even think to reply. He can feel the tenseness in his muscles, the rigidity of his body, as he snaps out a quick, “Listen.” His hand gestures to the lights in the distance, off to the side of the road somewhere in the night. “Those people out there? They haven't seen shit. It wasn't you, it was fucking Murkoff. And you didn't kill anyone. I fuckin' did.”

 

And then he’s turning, walking toward the door brusquely to grab the long jacket from where it’s hung on a nail pressed into the wall, throwing it over his shoulders before asking, “You coming?”

 

“Um, yeah!” He can hear fidgeting, the sound of a box falling on the floor before being picked up again, a jacket being zipped up. “I-I... should repay you for the car.”

 

“We'll call it even- only once, Park.” Miles offers him a semi good-natured smirk, quickly throwing open and shutting door behind him. He’s only half aware of the tiny gasp Waylon makes when it slams shut, leaning back against the wall. His eyes skirt over the man’s small, practically emaciated figure, the bloodshot eyes lined with dark circles, sunken cheekbones… 

 

Glancing down to his pocket, Miles holds the cigarette between his fingers and waits for a few moments. Waylon hasn’t even noticed his staring, though that’s nothing out of the ordinary- he’s half strung out, usually, barely lucid between the memories and the panic attacks. “You got my light, remember?” Miles reminds him, subtly nudging his shoulder.

 

“Oh, um... I think so?” Waylon digs into his pocket, giving him a pathetic excuse for a smile. Flipping the small object out, he hands it to Miles, a downcast expression when he glances away. “Here.... I-I wanted to ask you something, Upshur.”

 

Miles flicks the lighter open, holding it to the end of the cigarette, before snapping it closed and slipping into his pocket. He takes a drag, or at least attempts to, before flashing his attention back to Waylon, exhaling a long stream of smoke, crossing his legs as he presses his back flush to the brick, trying to hide the energy threatening to burst from his hands. “ Ask away, Park.”

 

“What... what happened in the moments where the camera was turned off? In the cells, where Father Martin put you- there were so many moments of where it was turned off and then being turned on again.. The necrophilic man, the Billy, the twins... what happened in between?” His voice is so uncertain, but almost unnaturally curious… morbidly so.

 

Miles almost doesn’t want to answer. 

 

“I was running.” He looks down at his hands, before glancing back up to Waylon with a frown. “I was just running away. Kind of like you, I guess. Tryin' to get away before anyone ripped my fuckin' ass. And what did it get me? A head full of bad memories, some missing fingers, a fucking  _ Walrider _ .”

 

“I-I’m sorry for asking…” Waylon says, trailing off before Miles has a chance to stop him. The curiosity in his voice is gone, replaced by a note of disturbance… a finality, really. It’s worrying to Waylon- Miles can tell. He’s never really had a problem reading Waylon, as strange as it seems to say that. Despite his abrasive nature, he actually cares- not much. But enough that he doesn’t like setting off anxiety attacks from a few words that are almost too light to have any real bearing.

 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Miles says, softly, before his hand is catching the other’s arm, grabbing him and spinning him enough that they can look each other in the eye, trying not to be discouraged by Waylon’s shaking, his hyperventilating as he stares at him with deep pools, bottomless pits that are haunted by too many ghosts to ignore- or even avoid.

 

He’s barely able to catch the man before he’s against the ground, body a quivering mess, biting his lip and tearing into it, pulling his legs to his chest and trying to make himself invisible, curling halfway into a ball in Miles’ thin arms, barely able to wrap around the now-mess that was Waylon Park. It seemed like everything that parted from his lips was a whimper or a breathless whine, shoulders shaking as if wracked by sobs, tears leaking down his pallid cheeks.

 

“Hey- hey, Park.  _ Waylon,”  _ Miles says, looking back to the door of their motel room, grabbing for the handle and wrapping his fingers around it, jimmying  _ up down up down,  _ until he can throw the thing open again and pull Park to his feet and drag him inside.

 

He’s shivering, hair sticking to his face and eyes narrowed, barely open but still so vivid, empty and unending, a depth that Miles isn’t sure he can even fathom. He’s hauling Park up, the cigarette neglected somewhere in the rain outside, dropping the man onto one of the beds and pulling his torso back, resting his head against the journalist’s own shaky, worn out body, his hand covering Waylon’s eyes, shutting the lids as though it could somehow fix it all.

 

He doesn’t know how it works. Hell, he isn’t even sure how long he sits in the dark, just holding the crying man in his arms, smoothing back his hair and keeping a hand over his eyes, saying some bullshit that hardly makes sense to him. But Miles can feel the shaking stop, at some point, can hear Park’s breathing even out into long, unlabored streams that just seem to continue and falter whenever they start to shake again.

 

“Even with all this shit, I’m not leaving, y’know.” Miles says, sliding away from Waylon to lie on the edge of the bed, eyes focusing in on the ceiling and the patterns, splotches of black and grey, that seem to build before his eyes. Sometimes there’s blood too- but it usually calms down when he keeps his mouth to himself. Speaking was a formality, anyway, not a necessity.

 

“I know,” Waylon says.

 

Miles doesn’t know what it is about this small man with his small voice and tumultuous, unending fear that seems to make him feel at ease. But somehow, when Waylon’s there, it’s enough to get all the chaos, madness,  _ gore,  _ out of his brain. And somehow, he thinks it helps Waylon too.

 

_ It takes a certain kind of fucked up to match people like us,  _ he thinks. 

 

He isn’t sure if he regrets answering Waylon’s email.


End file.
